


Dueling for Thrones

by fundamentalBlue



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Past Character Death, Politics, Post-Canon, Post-Hogwarts, Westeros, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-28 09:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13268367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fundamentalBlue/pseuds/fundamentalBlue
Summary: After the war, life went on. Until it didn't. Desperate for survival, what's left of the wizarding populace plunges through the Veil into Westeros. Plagued with personal loss, the heroes from the last war integrate into a society without the Statute of Secrecy where they struggle to navigate how involved they should be in Westeros. It would be easier, if the magic here would acknowledge their existence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings aren't all determined, but likely no cross canon pairings.

_ \-- _

 

_ “Well, that sample is bollocks.” Hermione roughly yanked the 357th slide and let it fall with a clink into the trash full of the other failures.  _

 

_ “It wasn’t me who thought it’d be anything other than a damp squib.”  _

 

_ “If my pretty pureblood lab partner over here wasn’t bloody  _ skiving off _ -”  _

 

_ “You think I’m pretty? Scrummy even? Do you think of me when Weasley’s on top of you huffing away and-” _

 

_ “Draco Malfoy! One more word and I’ll owl your mother.” His grin broadened, impossibly wide for all the angles on his pointy git face.  _

 

_ “You wouldn’t.” He flicked a straightening charm at her rumpled attire for good measure.  _

 

_ “ _ Don’t _. Or I will.” She insisted, grabbing at the front of her lab coat and crumpling it in her sweaty fingers in defiance. Draco abruptly switched tracts then, knowing he’d been skimming right along the line in the sand that would see the war heroine send a Howler to the small manse in France where his mother resided, which he’d simply never live down. He wouldn’t put it past her.  _

 

_ “We don’t know what it does then? It just roams around in magical folk with seemingly no purpose?”  _

 

_ “It’s so frustrating because that’s exactly it! It’s an empty vessel, no virus would be so vulnerable- wait, that’s it. That’s- oh.” Hermione Granger, who had withstood the cruciatus at the hands of Voldemort’s most insane, most loyal Death Eater and had walked away with sanity intact, paled. Draco, an all around coward who had joined with Voldemort’s cause because he felt he’d had no choice and in the end had coasted to safety on his mother’s better decisions, took notice.  _

 

_ “Draco, get me Shacklebolt on a floo call, now, I need-” He raced to do so, never having seen her so frazzled since, well, since the battle of Hogwarts years ago (still not enough time to stop the nightmares completely). _

 

_ Of course, by then it was too late.  _

 

_ \--  _ Harry Potter, Sentinel in the North --

 

Harry rode beside the quiet family in the crisp morning air. The sun had risen, but hadn’t quite taken away the chill that was settling across the land. Land that was still foreign, yet possessed characteristics that were achingly familiar to home. It was the ninth year of summer, but it had been only a year since they’d come to this place. This place of long summers and winters that, as far as Hermione had been able to discern, had no reasonable explanation for being so. Any normal world would have followed the laws of physics and orbiting planets. Magic, for all that any of the common folk and their nobility knew of it, wrote stories of it, experienced its ancient consequences, was something that had eluded them here and now. The presence of witches and wizards in Westeros was too new for there to be expeditions into new territory to look for whispers of foreign magic that had either died an ignoble death or was simply hiding. But it was also the reason that Harry was here in the North, closest to the source of whatever had been written. The wall, and whatever was behind it. 

 

Harry distantly noted that even after a few months time, out of the adults it was only Theon who would brave spontaneous interaction with him. The Iron Islander likely believed that in their own way, he and Harry had something in common, being so far from home and generally not well liked. It suited Harry just fine to be disliked, a welcome experience after the trappings of Magical London where he was pursed daily by photographers. His heart constricted though, to think of it, even the bad times, the annoying times, were now tinged with a longing that could not be quenched. 

 

But for now, Harry tried to remain in the present, leaving memories for behind closed doors, stable wards,  _ muffliato’s _ and floo calls _. _ There was no reason to be alert in the sense that he feared for his safety; the Stark family may not have accepted him as a person, but they acknowledged his place in their world now and weren’t prone to pushing or outright disobedience. Of course, he didn’t like that the fearful rumors of what his people had done that ran abound were mostly true, even as he used that fear to his advantage. Harry once again shoved down feelings of intense dislike for how all of this had played out. How it was. Unlike his Slytherin counterparts in other places of Westeros, he did not care for being feared. And he especially didn’t care for how Theon would attempt to pry stories of war and fighting from him, like a foolish boy who’d seen no such thing, but in this positively medieval place was determined to follow that short, bloody path. 

 

A hard place, this world was, however. Even now, Lord Stark’s seven year old son traveled with them this morning to watch, of all things, a man be beheaded for breaking an oath. To think, that Harry found it humane compared to many of the curses that wizards had invented. A wizard’s oath would have struck the man dead the moment he stepped away from whatever he had vowed to stay true to. There’d be no beheading or tracking the man down. But Harry also supposed that the magic would have warned the man, protected him from making an impulsive decision. But, there was no way they would make every man at the Wall take an Unbreakable Vow. He could only go forward now, and accept these new circumstances, even as the past haunted him. Thoughts of nasty curses he’d used, at times when he’d been in the war, spittle and harsh words flying at his enemies, stalked him in even his waking hours. Worse than it had been after the war. 

 

For many of the older magicals, the second war signaled true peace, even as it left a generation of scarred and shell-shocked young adults that no longer knew exactly what to do with themselves. It should come as no surprise then, when something far more terrible and exacting than the war came, his generation was ready.

 

“Did they cut off the heads of bad men where you’re from?” Bran’s small pony wiggled its chunky body forward to sidle up next to Harry’s palfrey, the boy’s deep blue eyes seeking his. 

 

“No. There were worse things.” He winced at his own words, knowing it might start Bran peppering him with questions. Children were immune to the institution of prejudice, even as the Lady Stark would drag her wayward children by their collars, a keen maternal hatred shining in her eyes that reminded him all too much of Molly Weasley. Here, it was Jon who slipped in between Bran’s laxly steered mount and forced the pony to careen off to the side. The Snow had no hate in his eyes for Harry, and no fear either. 

 

“Jon.” Harry smiled warmly. Jon only nodded and moved forward. Despite Lady Stark’s attempts to isolate Jon away from his siblings, he stuck by them loyally, and that included abiding by the relative disdain the whole of Westeros now held for his kind, even as Catelyn did her level best to disinclude him.

 

Before them stood the holdfast and a small contingent of men awaiting the Lord of Winterfell. 

 

The man that was to be punished for desertion was old and scrawny, bound hand and foot as he awaited justice. Parts were missing from frostbite, and his black cloak looked ragged and greasy. As Harry watched with the Stark family dismounted around him, Lord Eddard Stark raised his mage-forged sword, speaking, “in the name of the United Westeros, for the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, by the word of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” 

 

Harry whipped a wandless calming spell at the horses, prefering to not pull out his wand. The small sticks his kind possessed made everyone nervous, and from that Harry had opted to pursue learning wandless magic with a greater fervour than when he’d been studying to defeat the Dark Lord. He could hear Jon whispering to Bran, and Harry cringed inwardly that this world was so harsh that a boy who wouldn’t have even been invited to Hogwarts yet would be watching this. When the sword came down, only a few men flinched. Bran’s eyes were wide, while Theon whose lean and dark person found everything amusing, smiled and nudged the severed head with his boot. 

 

“Ass,” Jon muttered, then sheepishly spared a glance for Harry before turning away to put his hands on Bran’s shoulders. A faint wind blew, dispelling the tension and lifting the two banners that stood over the holdfast. The pure red flag with a golden symbol of the deathly hallows was the new House Potter sigil and it flapped lazily in the breeze along side the Stark banner of a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field. And no, he didn’t want a sigil, or  _ words, _ or even a House, but it wasn’t all up to him. He could almost hear Hermione’s lecture about cultural integration being a sign of respect and that it was the least they could do to incorporate themselves. Yet the pureblood contingent of their group delighted in the distinctions, already looking to make betrothals to their new and old great houses. Of course, these negotiations did not include any of the houses of their new home. No Starks, Tyrells, Lannisters, Baratheons, Martells, Tullys or any of the non-magical people would find themselves married into a wizarding family. But oh how they had tried, at first, before the natural segregation was codified by the new Wizenamot of Westeros. The whole business left a foul taste in Harry’s mouth, even as he understood the reasons.  

 

The Lord of Winterfell mounted his horse, white salted beard and gray eyes roving over his children, stopping to linger on Harry a moment before he turned his grim expression to his youngest son Bran, beckoning his son over. Jon helped the boy mount up, and the two took the lead for the return to Winterfell. Harry eyed the blade at Eddard’s side, feeling slight irritation that the man wouldn’t even let him touch the thing, shining at the seams with magic as it was. One of the few artifacts left to these people. Granted, Hermione had unprecedented access to such things at Oldtown and there was no real need for him to examine “Ice” as the sword was referred to, but it was the lack of trust that got Harry down. 

 

“The deserter died bravely,” Robb said, looking to Jon deliberately. He was broadening everyday, his fair skin, auburn hair and blue eyes a portrait that was a few sizes up from his younger brother Bran. “He had courage, at the least.” He thought he’d be resistant by this point, with all of Theon’s prodding and poking about bravery and acts of violence, but Harry chuckled harsh and low in his throat before responding. 

 

“Courage? That man lived and died in fear.” His green eyes shined, taking in all the light even as he narrowed them at Robb, the eldest son and heir to Winterfell. The boy blanched, but recovered.

 

“He died well, nonetheless,” nudging his destrier forward, Harry could hear him mutter, “the Others take these Magi.” Harry hadn’t used his influence to make anyone here fear him specifically, and the consequences were that at times the teenagers didn’t anticipate the danger inherent in him being a wizard. Not that Harry wanted them to; he wanted to belong, like he had once in the Burrow not so long ago. The Starks reminded him of the Weasleys, in a way. Quiet, stoic Weasleys without red hair, all as serious as Percy with all the honor of a Longbottom. He was weary now, thinking of his losses, trying to fit in with this implacable family. He tried to remember why they had done this, why they were here now and that he was alone amongst these people by choice. Truly, he couldn’t stand to look into the eyes of anyone who had been there the day they’d arrived for very long. He saw too much of his own failings staring back.  

 

“I cannot go on like this.” He said to no one at all. Jon had raced ahead to catch Robb and Theon had given in to the urge as well, racing ahead to catch up. In a fit of unethical pique, he cast a spell George had perfected in lieu of using Extendable Ears. 

 

_ “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”  _

 

_ “That is the only time a man can be brave. Do you understand why I did it?” _

 

_ “He was a wilding. They carry off women and sell them to the Others” _

 

_ “Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth the man is an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night’s Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it.” _

 

Harry dispelled his magic, somewhat ashamed at his insertion into a father’s teaching moment. Yet he appreciated some of what Eddard was saying. The philosophy worked well in their society as it had stood. Before, well, everything changed with the arrival of their people. 

 

He didn’t have too long to ponder the situation, as he heard shouting in the distance ahead of Lord Stark and Bran. He kicked his horse into a canter, catching up to the scene quickly. The horses all idled on the riverbank north of the bridge, the summer snows laying heavy on the sides of the flowing river. Robb had dismounted, striding through the snow like some demented yeti, one of the magical creatures they’d failed to find and take with them in their hurry to leave. 

 

In Robb’s arms he cradled a small furry bundle, Bran leaning forward to look while Jon stood surveying something out of sight. Harry dismounted and trudged over, shins pushing through the hardened top of the snow to where Jon was standing. Before him lay the largest wolf he had ever seen. And within its injured body, he could detect trace magic, whether it was touched by it or contained within it, he couldn’t tell from the state of the animal. But it was one of the first creatures he’d ever encountered that might be considered magical in nature. 

 

“Gods!” Theon exclaimed, stomping holes in the white as he placed himself next to Harry. 

 

“Robb get away from it!” Jory, Eddard’s man at arms called out. 

 

“She can’t hurt you. She’s dead, Jory.” Robb smiled, looking up from the object in his arms. 

 

Pulling his wand and casting a silent healing diagnostic on the creature that laid before him, Harry found otherwise. It was horrid, to be sure. Maggots had settled into the rotting flesh quickly, and frost coated the fur while red blood stained the snow around it. Yet the wolf before him had a sluggish pulse and shallow breath. If it had been up to Muggle science, it would have been declared dead. Yet, there was some amount of hope. 

 

“I have to disagree. Do stand back.” His voice rang out into the stamping of the horses hooves and the soft murmuring of the men. Hullen and his son pulled Robb’s horse back as Robb made his way towards Jon. Theon scurried back to the lines as well. Harry stood next to the great beast, feeling determined to see that it live. Possessed by the urge to prove his skills in a manner that did not result in death of another, he cast every healing spell he could remember from the war.  _ Accio _ ’ing the antler he could see sticking out from its throat, he cast a nonverbal  _ Vulnera Sanetur  _ after to close the wound. A flurry of spells left his wand, removing the blood, and snow. The lungs inside the shaggy furred body expanded and it huffed through its wide mouth of yellow teeth. Eyes that had been milky and sightless, were now red rimmed but alert. 

 

The wolf stretched its paws and gray furred legs forward, planting them in the snow and pulled itself up. Several men gasped and continued backing their panicked horses instinctively, not thinking that if the wolf wanted, the horses wouldn’t be able to escape anyway. Harry’s eyes shined as it stood, towering above his shoulder and gazing at the men more serenely than an animal ought to. 

 

“That’s a direwolf,” Jon said with a dissociated calm. 

 

“There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.” 

 

“I see one now,” Jon replied. Its eyes alighted to Robb, causing the boy to drop to one knee and let the squiggling bundle go. It skidded over the snow, finding its way easily to its mother. More yips and small cries sounded as the large animal swung its head to examine the pups that had whelped out of it while in its previous death throes. 

 

“Those pups won’t survive long without a den. It would have been best to let the beast be.” Lord Stark’s brow was furrowed, disturbed by what he perceived as an interruption to the nature of things. Every man that had one had pulled his sword by now, shivering in cold and fear, twitching when the wolf shook its shaggy fur, freeing it of the last vestiges of white. Her pups crowded around her legs, seeking suckle from her slightly sagging teets. With a harumph, she sat in a squatted position and gave Harry a look that reminded him of Ginny when James and Albus had been young. James had only just weaned when Albus was born, and his quiet boy had picked up where James had left off at the breast, though with less teeth. His wife’s exasperation was mirrored in the beast’s face, and he chuckled before sucking in a breath at the memory, pain welling in his heart for his lost wife and children. Intense guilt at the fact he could barely look his daughter, Lily, in the face, without feeling trace resentment and loss. 

 

It was good that she was fostered in Dorne, where Doran Martell had taken to the orphaned magical children with a tenacity that disturbed the rest of the Martells. Still, with Pavarti as the Sentinel of the far South, no one would dare harm any child that frollicked in the Water Gardens. And if Pavarti found comfort in Doran’s arms, well, none could complain as it did not strictly violate the laws set down for wizarding kind. 

 

“This beast was sent. By something magical.” Harry contradicted Eddard in a way the man could not find reproach with his actions by law. All magic was governed by the Wizenamot and their Sentinels within each region. Harry reached and caressed the wolf’s mind, looking for that elusive taste of something old and deep, much like the flavor of magic that ran through the Weirwoods. And, like the Weirwoods, he found himself pushed away from whatever it was that held the creature’s mind. 

 

Unlike the respect Harry offered the Weirwoods, trees that almost felt like sentient beings, he did not offer it in regards to the animal. He latched onto the foreign magic like a bloodhound, searching and pulling its slippery mass forward for examination. 

 

“Legillimens!” The wand in his hand was eager for the spell, as it was for all magic. A tiresome object, the death stick was, with its hunger and its pining for use. Yet during these times it was most effective and as Harry sunk into the confines of the direwolf’s golden eyes, he found himself confronted with a  _ song. _

 

_ Who are you? _

 

_ Those who sing the song of the earth. _

 

Abruptly he was shoved out, but not before a fleeting glimpse of nut-brown skin and mossy green eyes flashed at him. And not before he felt whatever magic in the song had taken hold of the direwolf’s mind.

 

Having been released from the song, the direwolf turned feral, snarling and whipping her head around at the men surrounding her. 

 

“Kill it!” An unknown man shouted in fear, and Eddard strode forward with his longsword, ready to impale the wolf. 

 

“No! All of you, back down!” He shouted, just as the wolf took a swipe at him and he raised a hastily erected protego to stop the slashing claws from disemboweling him. 

 

He knew if he pushed, he could imitate that  _ song _ , that  _ magic.  _ Magic was intent, it was borne out of desperate want. The most powerful of magic was that which arose from primordial muck, that was only base need. Of man over man, man over self, man over his environment. Harry felt the thrumming of his own blood rising in his ears and he briefly wondered if the first wizard ever faced such an animal and in his need had done something otherworldly to escape death. Something new and powerful. He called on that sentiment now, wordlessly pushing his will into the direwolf. 

 

“Stand down!” Eddward bellowed, pulling his sons back. 

 

It was easy to calm the creature, the previous magic having carved out paths in the wolf’s mind that lay waiting like barren channels. The magic sluiced through, and the wolf became serene as it had been before. Unfortunately Harry couldn’t sustain this magic for long and he needed  _ more _ than this. More change, more permanency, more  _ acceptance _ . 

 

_ Be what I need you to be. _ The Elder Wand hummed with joy as it drowned the wolf with Harry’s innermost desires.  _ Familiar _ , it whispered.  _ Companion.  _

 

Before Harry could register what his heart had wanted and how it ran counter to what was ethical, the spell was complete. 

 

\--

 

“Harry you need to stop using that wand. We’ve talked about this.” Hermione’s face glowed in the flames of his hearth, her voice stern as the logs cracked for emphasis. 

 

“I know you’re right, I do. But it’s my fault. It was my intent that changed the wolf to be something other than what the original magic was. That made it more. It’s not on the wand.” Yet he knew that the wand took special delight in perverting whims. Or rather, understanding the darker desires of the wizard and giving them shape. In the direwolf, Harry had not made the song permanent; he’d altered the wolf to be more similar to a familiar or owl. The creature now radiated that slight sentience all magical familiars did once bonded with a witch or wizard. Thankfully her pups did not. He didn’t think it was such a great idea to go about creating magical familiars with impunity. Not to mention the implications if the wolf were to ever breed again. Would her future pups be closer to sentience than she? It was sobering, the idea that he could be responsible for a drastic change in an entire species. 

 

“Really, you know the first thing you should have done was put in a call to me and I would have portkeyed to you. We haven’t had a single encounter with the magic of this place but for the debacle at the Isle of Faces and assorted Weirwood related incidents. As it stands I’ll need your memories for the pensieve.” He hadn’t thought about it in the moment, the excitement of having finally found active magic took over, with encouragement from his rebellious wand. It wasn’t a tree, and the magic clinging to the wolf hadn’t belonged to it precisely. Whatever it was, was as much a trespasser into the animal as he had been.

 

“Of course, I’ll draw them out and portkey them in. It’s good to see your face. Any idea when your Sentinel tour begins?” 

 

“Percy hasn’t sent out any schedules. You know how he is about security. And don’t think you won’t be hearing more about how that wand is a menace, Harry. I haven’t forgotten and I’ve kept the fact that you have it from just about everyone. For now, I’ll have to report to the Wizenamot on your encounter. Perhaps they’ll get off their arses and send an expedition North like we’ve been asking for months to do.” The Weirwoods, while filled with active magic, remained closed doors to their kind. No amount of cajoling, shooting spells or pleading with the trees had made them do more than their usual red-sap weeping from the carvings in their trunks. Something was there, but it wasn’t interested in contact. At least the magical species they’d brought with considered the trees magical enough to be attracted to. But if there had been many things about their society that the faction Hermione and he belonged to disliked about this new world, they had won the battle on whether any witch or wizard would force open a connection to the trees. The answer being that no, they would not  _ assault _ another magical entity knowingly. Not without provocation, of which there’d been the opposite. Yet Harry had done just that, really. Even if he hadn’t known that what was affecting the direwolf was a sentient being, not a spell or curse. 

 

Further, research was only important currently if it contributed to the well-being of magical society and their relationship with the non-magicals of this place. In a society with so few bodies, each individual had a responsibility to the collective that was greater than it had ever been before. Harry and Hermione couldn’t run off like they had seventh year at Hogwarts, not with a deceptively stable government that had usurped the nobility of this world so handily, such that it was a surprise no one had successfully murdered a wizard in their sleep. It had only been by strict protocol involving warding and notice me not charms that they’d suffered no casualties so far. And if there hadn’t been two wars previous that almost all of the adults had experienced, well, things might have been different. 

 

“Just tell them I have a giant, magical wolf that follows me around now. I’m not above threatening to have her piss on rugs or legs in order to get priority.” Hermione cackled, and it was so good to hear. To laugh and carry on like they had when it had been all of them at a dinner table, their children throwing food and and accidental magic at each other in equal measure. His smile fell as hers did, both remembering what was lost. 

 

“Have you spoken to Lily?” She asked gently. 

 

“You’d know if you’d spoken to Hugo.” Harry snapped irritably at her, feeling sensitive and vulnerable. Lily was like Ginny, his mother and himself all rolled into one. Green eyes, hopeless with her hair and fierce. Hell on a broomstick. It broke his heart into a million pieces, and simply watching her  _ live _ was so Merlin be damned painful, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be a father, like he’d always thought in the beginning when he’d remember his own parents were dead, so how would he know how to be one? Ginny had convinced him he could, and without her, he was back in his cupboard, wondering what it would like to be cared for by someone who wanted him. His tediously childish personal hell. Because yes, he knew that there was Hermione still, and Hugo who was the spitting image of Ron, and Lily, yet somehow it didn’t feel like quite enough to want to wake up each day and be content. 

 

“I’m trying to help Harry. Hugo still isn’t speaking either. But I still call, and talk to him. About Ron and Rose, if I can bear it. You can’t leave her there alone Harry, I’m your friend and I’ve watched you go through losing them, but I have to put my foot down, you need  _ help. _ ” 

 

“Was it Charlie that put you up to this? George?” He groused, his emotions fraying and twisting up inside him. 

 

“Neither! No one  _ put me up to this _ , you numpty tosser! Harry James Potter if you think you can pull the wool over my eyes about what’s going on with you, you’re sorely mistaken. And further, if your discovery constitutes  _ real  _ first contact with other magical beings, as I believe it does, you can bet Morgana’s left tit that we’ll all be Portkeying up North. In that foreseeable future, you  _ will _ be dragged kicking and screaming south to see your daughter and get help from a Mind Healer because I’ve had just about enough of your stroppy attitude. So help me if you try and  _ stop _ me I’ll get Draco to find you a wife per our new and lovely marriage laws.” Her voice climbed higher and higher, and Harry wondered belatedly if she just should have sent a Howler. It was what he needed to hear, at any rate. 

 

“Alright! You’re right, I know, I need help, I’m sorry. Please don’t sic Malfoy on me? He’ll hit my glasses with unnecessary  _ reparos _ all while politely going on about his previous non-existent research into hair potions. As if I hadn’t spent my entire life with this mop on my head enough to know what it looks like.”

 

“Don’t judge Malfoy, he’s gotten a lot better these days. He’d only force you to go on long walks for air and not burn your entire wardrobe.” The fireplace flickered as her flame-face shook its head. “It’s fine though Harry. I mean the attitude. But I do mean everything else too. You went North alone and we all accepted that each of us needed to grieve in different ways. But it’s been long enough now.” What went unsaid was that he should have called Lily sooner. Participated in the rebuilding of this society as he had the first time around. Maybe not as a symbol, but as one of the few wizards left in a population of only three hundred or so magical people. He had responsibilities beyond his urges to explore the deep North, past where humans could safely roam. 

 

“I know Hermione. A thousand times I know! And I can’t explain how it’s so much harder to do what is right now than it was then. How easy it was to fight Voldemort, compared to visiting my own daughter. And now I think we’ve done terrible things here that I can’t see any way around not having done.” There had been many debates on the ways the wizarding populace could have integrated into Westeros. The pureblood faction’s points had been a cruel reality, however. Genetic diversity was almost too low within their populace, but magic was a multiple allele inheritance that would likely see magical blood too much dispersed within a population of people who didn’t have any of the alleles necessary to carry on magical blood. With the muggles from earth, it had been different, in that magical blood had evolved from or devolved out of the populace, leaving many people with a few genes short of a full magical deck, but just enough that two muggles could still produce a magical child. In the new order, it was magical blood that was pure, no matter if you were muggleborn or Sacred 28. It grated on both Harry and Hermione that the pureblood acceptance they had stopped craving long ago, but still wistfully wondered what it would be like to have, had come on the heels of more prejudice. Prejudice against the very people whose system they had usurped and forcibly inserted themselves into. 

 

Wizards had brought with them the finer things of civilization, but these were a people who were being dragged kicking and screaming away from an almost feudal system to capitalist structures and institutions. It was painful all around.   
  
“You know I hate this. We all- well, not Draco, but even he finds some of the actions that have been deemed necessary distasteful.” 

 

“The man lives on a mountain of gold with Goblins, Sphinxes and Griffins. Don’t tell me he’s not blissfully sneering at his non-magical counterpart as he counts coins.” Harry sighed, “I don’t want to admit it, but we could have had more of a hand in all this.” 

 

Hermione hummed in solemn agreement through the flames. They’d both run to the places that they understood: her to books and him to the most possible danger he was allowed to be in. It was what they had known before settling down. Before they’d lost it all over a decade later. 

 

\-- 

 

After his floo call with Hermione, Harry drifted through the halls, meandering down to the kennels. Eddard had, under no uncertain terms, made it clear that the direwolf wouldn’t be allowed in. Harry had only agreed because they’d had to bring the pups along too. As soon as they were weaned, he intended on bringing her inside. Any magically altered creature craved to be around other magical things. It was why a muggle wouldn’t run into magical creatures all that often back on earth; magical creatures coalesced into tentative communities around witches and wizards. Even the predatory creatures doubly avoided non-magicals. 

 

“Lady Catelyn.” Before he’d made it outside, the Lady of Winterfell crossed his path with a small curtsey. 

 

“Lord Potter. I have news from the south.” Her blue eyes were flinty with distrust, irritation. 

 

_ Jon should thank me for being the distraction I am.  _ Catelyn hated Harry almost as much as she did Eddard’s bastard son. But not as much as Petunia Dursley had hated him. Not nearly so. 

 

“Walk with me then?” He breezed past her, forcing the woman to turn and attend him. It was a petty delight, but at his age he indulged at times in his position of authority. Especially when the woman, though a motherly and well-meaning person, rubbed him the wrong way when it came to Jon. He did understand her ire. Had he done what Eddard had done, Ginny would have castrated him. But, he did imagine that pureblood families had children on the wrong side of the sheets more often than not, and these arranged marriages, like Eddard and Catelyn’s, surely needed their outlets. It didn’t justify any of her behavior, but he supposed he could see where Jon stood as a threat to Robb’s inheritance. If the man had a traitorous bone in his body, which he did not. 

 

“Lord Arryn has passed on.” She fell into step beside him, awaiting some kind of response. Harry had none; he’d never been a stellar student of history of magic, and he certainly hadn’t examined the intricate and complicated relations of his hosts to the rest of Westeros. 

 

Sensing his confusion, she continued. 

 

“Lord Stark fostered with the Lord of the Vale when he was young. And Lord Arryn was hand of the King.” She was referring to the Baratheon King, who’d been all but deposed, had been guided by this Arryn. Harry did not know much more about the situation, other than that Percy was handling it currently and that the man had racked up a sizeable amount of debt to the Westerlands and elsewhere. 

 

“They will pick a new hand?” 

 

“Yes, I suspect.” Catelyn continued her sedate walk beside him. For all the woman did not like him, she did take a while to reach her point. He recognized that at one time in her life, Catelyn had come here and married someone she did not know. So new as Lady Stark, to watch her husband come home with a Jon and force the woman to accept him was not something Harry could even imagine. It was understandable then, that she deeply despised Jon, as he represented the betrayal of a vow that would be thrown in her face again and again. He didn’t think her behavior was forgivable, however, and it wasn’t at all endearing how she let it trickle down into her children. Nor how he seemed to be included in her spite. 

 

They had reached the courtyard, where Robb and Jon traded blows with practice swords while Bran practiced with his bow. Without Catelyn, the boy would have run up to Harry. The children made him think of his own, and at times when he was wracked with guilt over Lily, he perversely appreciated that Catelyn did her best to keep them away from him. 

 

“Robert and Ned are long time friends. It was Ned to rallied to Robert’s call for Rebellion.” They stood watching the children in the yard, breaths puffing out white and misty. 

 

“I’ve always hated politics Lady Stark.” 

 

“Robert will ask for Ned.” 

 

“He can always say no.” 

 

“He won’t.” Catelyn looked miserably angry, but Harry still didn’t know exactly what she was asking of him. If Eddard left, Robb would be here to learn how to rule in his stead. And the occasional scheduled visit with a Portkey and magical escort could be arranged. It wasn’t the kind of life Harry would want to live, being in King’s Landing, nor was it Eddard’s he suspected. Harry still didn’t consider it within his duties to advise a man who had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with magic-kind, including him. 

 

“You’re asking the wrong man. I can’t convince your husband to stay.” 

 

“I am aware.” She bit out. “But if he could be outfitted with- with one of those keys, to come and go home at night as he pleased?” Oh how it must have burned her to even ask. She who disliked the North and its crude, primal ways and had added Harry to that collection of hate easier than breathing. 

 

“You are aware of the laws. And you know me well enough to know that I don’t get involved,” he looked at her, trying to ensure that she did not see it as personal that he wouldn’t, couldn’t help. They had already interfered enough, and there had been growing concerns that had been there from the beginning that these people would come to expect more than magicals would be able to offer. And when they didn’t get it, they would take it, or destroy it so others couldn’t have it. The purebloods had sniffed and instead of considering it flattering or dangerous, deemed the esteem their abilities were held in as a matter of course. Not that they were all naive to the danger; Draco Malfoy had been enjoying the un-tender company of Tywin Lannister long enough to have a grasp on just how similarly power hungry certain families were to pureblood ones. No one had given more than token protest to Draco’s methods of ascertaining truth, not when the risks were so high. 

 

“Then if that is all, my Lord.” Catelyn would have made an excellent pureblood scion of a noble wizarding house, the way her curtsey was sharp enough to be an insult. She didn’t wait for his dismissal before making her way to where Eddard was in the Godswood. The man sought refuge in prayer and worship after taking any man’s life. 

 

“Cold as a river trout, that one.” Theon slinked up to him, the boy’s smile a mischievous line across his face. 

 

In his pocket, his official Protean charmed Dragon warmed. Likely a Sentinel call regarding the late Jon Arryn. 

 

“You know Theon, there is no going back. I remember what it was like to be between two worlds, two families. Lady Catelyn may not be your mother, but she’s treated you kindly.” The boy’s adolescent face turned morose and pinched at the rejection, and he spluttered. 

 

“I’m a Prince of the Pike, and I always will be! What do your kind even know about family anyway? You’re just some sad Magi that couldn’t handle being a man.” He stomped off after hissing his words at Harry, not waiting for Harry to do something magical and awful to him. As if Harry could be intimidated by the words of a child, even as he did think that maybe there was some truth to them. That he couldn’t handle loss, not like he should.

 

“I’d forgotten how boys were.” Harry said to the empty air before continuing on to the kennels. The Protean Dragon could wait.


	2. Chapter 2

_ There were some words,  _ sorry  _ and  _ didn’t know, never would have. _ Shacklebolt hung up the vintage rotary phone in his office. The only piece of muggle technology they’d gotten to work, and the only one they’d needed.  _

 

_ He allowed himself a moment of indecorous behavior, the portraits behind him ducking as he threw his lamp, quills and stacks of now pointless paperwork at the walls and floor. Minister of Magic for twenty peaceful years and it had come to this.  _

 

_ Straightening his robes, he exited his office to see a great many of the pale faces of his Aurors, department heads and general cogs of the Ministry of Magic lined up and awaiting his word. Something, anything that would make the whispers they’d heard not true.  _

 

_ “Oliver, with me. Unspeakable Granger and Malfoy, in my office.” Unashamed of the mess, he still quickly set it to rights as the three squeezed out from between the bodies of people behind him and followed. As the wards settled over the room, including a general silencing spell, Shacklebolt began to issue order after order to his intent Head of Ministry Security. At Hogwarts, Oliver Wood had composed rigorous Quidditch workouts. That single-mindedness that others had declared was ‘ _ a bit much’ _ then, and at times during the course of his employment with the Ministry, found its purpose today.  _

 

_ When Shacklebolt was finished, Wood did not waste time, his robes spinning with him as he left to make good on what he had previously considered his most paranoid security protocols. _

 

_ “Tell me, what do you know about the Veil?”  _

 

* * *

 

When Percy apparated to Winterfell in a whirl of green robes, only Freki’s pups were startled. Freki herself, the newly named direwolf, was now somewhat of an extension of Harry, as Crookshanks had always been for Hermione. He shooed away the pups back into their kennel along with Freki, who gave him a withering glance at being dismissed before trotting behind the metal gates. 

 

The sun was cresting just above the walls, which left the courtyard mostly empty as the denizens of Winterfell ate and bedded down for the night. Harry needn’t have worried, however. Weasley had cast a notice-me-not around his person, and he wondered how often the man used the charm that he’d preemptively put it around him. How much wizards in Westeros glided through their life unseen these days, in an effort to stay separate. 

 

“Percy.” He greeted the red head warmly. 

 

“Sentinel Potter,” he replied briskly, extending a firm hand. Harry smiled ruefully and took it before pulling Percy into a hug as the other man let out a small gasp. The tingle of the notice-me-not charm coated him, and he had a brief moment of nervousness that someone was watching, as he always did when he embraced someone in public. But if there was anyone, it was only servants and no clicking cameras or shouting journalists. 

 

“You always try to be so professional Percy.” They’d long since buried the hatchet over Percy’s falling out with his family during the war. And not only because he’d had to by way of marrying Ginny. Harry couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to have been on the wrong side of the things for so long, even if inadvertently. It had hurt, when he was young, to hear Percy implore his brother Ron to stay away from him, but it was the pain of a child not understanding rejection. As an adult, he knew better about what had driven Percy to make the decisions he had and what lesson had been learned. All of that was what made him the ideal wizard for managing magical affairs in King’s Landing. Percy wasn’t liable to make the same mistakes again.

 

“It is good to see you, Harry.” Percy relented, letting a smile crack through his thin lips. Being in charge had also been as good to him as he had for it. The last times that Harry had seen Percy at the Burrow, he’d been going greyer each year and looked more like a thin, pinched version of his father. Harry would bet that Percy believed he’d had his chance to do the most important work of his life, and had blown it during the war. Making it to the battle for Hogwarts hadn’t erased the time he’d been estranged and Harry knew that Percy felt he hadn’t avenged Fred’s death, or even atoned for it fully. What Percy did in King’s Landing was necessary, but it was also atonement. It was a gift he could offer his people and himself. 

 

“Walk with me, and tell me what you had to come all this way in person for.” Harry cast a  _ muffliato _ , his own notice-me-not charm and a quick  _ lumos _ . 

 

As they made their way through the courtyard to the open halls of Winterfell, Percy seemed reluctant to talk. Harry knew the conversation would likely be unpleasant, but he’d hoped that there were good things to discuss as well. As they trudged on in relative silence, however, it seemed less likely to be a visit filled with reminiscence of their home and pleasant news of how Harrenhal was coming along. 

 

Harry’s rooms had been small initially, but a few extension charms had turned them into something more comfortable for entertaining. They both settled into plush chairs in front of the empty fireplace as Harry levitated logs into the hearth. Wordlessly, Harry pulled a set of tea cups and tea pot out and set to making tea with an  _ aguamenti _ and heating charm. A fire blazed into existence and charmed blankets slithered their way over and around their legs.

 

With tea in hand, Percy perceptibly relaxed, but still carried a slight tension to him as he spoke.

 

“You won’t like this. Not at all.” 

 

“Percy, you’ll always be my brother too, the family I chose, but I’d be an idiot if I didn’t realize that most of what you have to say about work is something I’d rather take a Nosebleed Nougat than hear. But I suppose I’m an adult now, so let’s get on with it.” He sighed. 

 

“We’ll start with the easiest issue first. The advisor to the muggle King has passed, as you’ve heard?” 

 

“Yes, and I know that the man plans on taking Eddard Stark away from his family to replace him. The Lady Stark asked to have a Portkey on standby each night for him to return.” The political climate in King’s Landing wasn’t something Harry paid much attention to, so it was neither here nor there to him whether a Portkey was now appropriate to request for a muggle noble or not. He had figured the least he could do for Catelyn was mention it to someone who could make a difference.

 

“I suppose that’s the only easy issue then.” Percy laughed a little forcibly. “We need you in King’s Landing, Harry.” 

 

“No, absolutely not.” 

 

“The Wizengamot- everyone, has given you time to grieve. We all lost loved ones, but the hiding has to stop. Without you to balance the pureblood faction, we’re rudderless.” 

 

“And who the bloody hell am I to be the steering our sad little ship? You’re barmy if you think I’ll be headed back with you.” Percy’s face darkened, the man far less patient than Hermione had been regarding his temper. His fingers clenched the arms of the chair as he shot back with equal vehemence. 

 

“You’re the ruddy Chosen One, that’s who! You think I fancy coming up here and telling you this? You’ve not a single idea of what’s going on in  _ your _ government, obsessed with chasing foreign magic, and this pursuit would be forgivable if you talked to my niece at all! No- no, you sit your arse back down and listen to me you selfish todger-” Harry had stood up to loom over the furious man, not intending to hit him with a spell, but perhaps leg it right out of there. Instead he found himself with an  _ incarcerous  _ to the chair and a silencing spell on his person. 

 

“Now we have waited, patiently, for our war heroes to pull their bollocks out of their arses. People who are best suited to being in charge who are off gardening, researching, exploring or counting out their wealth. In the meantime we have Alcyone Black heading up the pureblood faction and pushing the Wizengamot into pre-war levels of prejudice! Speaking of, she is your problem to deal with, being the Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black,” he all but spat the title. Harry wandlessly and wordlessly released the incarcerous and finited the silencing spell, but stayed docile in his chair. A Weasley in his stride was a Weasley who’d just hex him some more.  

 

“Recently the Wizengamot voted in measures to gather more comprehensive and  _ private _ data on our non-magical counterparts. Someone, likely Black, already knew something and had hoped to expose it to more public channels where we’d be hard pressed to  _ not _ act. I scarcely managed to put myself in position to head up the investigation, but  _ cor _ if I hadn’t, we’d be in the midst of another war right now. It’s forced us into a precarious position, as if we do not act on the information discovered and instead solidify our non-intervention with the non-magicals, there will eventually be a war between them. If we act, we’ll be in direct violation of our charter to not interfere, and there still might be a war that’d we’d have to end quickly. And as you know the current Charter has more holes than a sodding muggle soap opera. The purebloods don’t care either way; if we take control of the non-magical government, they make the rules. If we don’t, they make the rules of engagement while the rest of us dig our heels in. If we don’t get on this first, and ensure our counterparts are treated as human beings, we’ll be looking at a classist society all over again, at  _ best _ .” The redhead flicked his wand to release the incarcerous, his brown eyes flashing in irritation when the magic did nothing at all, before putting his grey-streaked head into his hands and rubbing circles on his forehead. 

 

“Harry I don’t like making ultimatums, but I’ve tried my best to wrangle the Wizengamot into something that isn’t distrusting, or downright hateful towards non-magicals. Swaying people to a cause is not within my abilities. But I can manage you, and the others. And you can manage the Wizengamot. As far as I can see, none of the people we need have been adequately handling their own care, and that, I can arrange.” 

 

“You can’t make me. You wouldn’t.” Harry was glaring  _ Avada Kedavra’s _ out of his green eyes at his brother-in-law, but Percy must have been truly desperate as he looked unflappable and as courageous as any Gryffindor. Bleeding hell, he’d even tied Harry to a chair! He’d expected it of George, but not former Prefect Percy. 

 

“Maybe,” he tilted his head to stare back into Harry’s eyes, “but you will do it, or I will make your life shite.” 

 

“Alcyone isn’t my fault.” Harry protested weakly, already seeing how this would all play out. 

 

“She’s absolutely your sodding fault. You appointed her the proxy for House Black on the Wizengamot, gave her Grimmauld place, which was a mistake. You could have just let her live there, but you gave her a wizarding manse.” 

 

“I wasn’t using the bloody thing and I want nothing to do with it anymore! And I don’t see how giving her the manse is relevant.” 

 

“Not relevant? Harry you didn’t really think that giving her the place was going to make her less of a problem?” 

 

“I wasn’t thinking of that. I was just thinking it’d be nice to do something well, nice. And that she’d appreciate it after being denied her heritage.” 

 

“Harry that’s rubbish. I don’t understand why I have to spell this out for you. She resents it because she believes her heritage should have made her Head of House Black to begin with. You gave her something that she believed to be hers, and she wants the house less than she wants to be indebted to the Chosen One. Or she wants them equally and cannot reconcile that all she has  _ you gave _ to her.” 

 

“Can I just restore her great-grandfather Marius to the tapestry? Wouldn’t that fix succession? I’ll give it up if that’s what she wants.” 

 

“No, you git that’s not how magic works. Your position as Head of House is yours until you pass. She may have Grimmauld Place ensconced in the hills of Harrenhal and Kreacher worshiping her as Walburga come again, but she can’t access the Master’s study. She can’t even marry without your permission.” 

 

“Ginny didn’t need her family’s permission to marry.” He grumbled uselessly. 

 

“Look, you were an Auror, a critical part of wizarding society, but Harry, you are also given a pass when it comes to wizarding culture because of events in the war. The Weasleys sold their manse a long time ago, leaving us only Pureblood in name and not tradition. I understand you don’t know or agree with a lot of wizarding tradition, but half of our population is steeped in it and most of the rest besides the muggleborns at least know about it. Like I said, you were given a pass, and the rest of the Auror team could pick up the slack of social niceties when raiding Pureblood houses for dark artifacts. But this is how the other half works, and you can’t pretend otherwise.” Harry didn’t like to think of it, but Percy was right. As much as he resented his mother’s family for being downright abusive, he’d never taken to wizarding culture. He’d felt abandoned by his world, even as they craved interviews and blessings from their savior. They didn’t want  _ him _ . They wanted the Boy-Who-Lived, something that belonged to everyone else but Harry. 

 

With Ginny it had been bearable. She smashed cameras and said outrageous things to the random folk that accosted them in restaurants and on the street. He’d needed that, that kind of protection, and he relied on her to interface with the rest of society. Going to the right gatherings, hosting parties. It had all been Ginny. 

 

Percy had paused, knowing that Harry needed a moment to remember what life had been like, and how he’d had Ginny for almost twenty years. Twenty years of love and tender care. Not enough, not nearly enough. 

 

“I’m not accusing you of laziness. I’m saying that in this small society we are clinging to what we know from before, and others are adopting those principles out of fear and lack of anything else to believe in. Before, you could be lax in learning these areas, but now your ignorance and reluctance to engage represents a danger.”

 

“Hermione doesn’t care about traditions. And I know I’m a tool, but I want to be my own tool without anyone trying to own me. It’s not much to ask that I be in charge of my own life.” Harry had already decided he’d have to go, maybe not forever, but at least to take up the Potter seat. He’d leave the Black post to Alcyone, though he was sure it’d be unprecedented and she’d hate him all the more for the obvious generosity. 

 

“Tools will always be sought after, and picked up, regardless of their desires. There is no denying that someone must own them. Believe me I know what my sister did for you and if I could bring her back I would. As for Hermione, she may be your friend but sometimes I’m not sure you know her very well. She’s always pretended not to care about being a muggleborn, but it was because no one from the other side would ever accept her blood. I should know, in a way we’re very similar, though she’s always cared more about what’s right. This is her chance now, in a society that values magical blood as pureblood. She’s fighting it because it seems unfair that this is what it took for her to get recognition. You’re not the only one I’m trying to get to come home, Harry. You’re just the most difficult.”

 

“I’ll think about it. Any way I can know what you’ll do if I don’t?” He was more asking for his other friends. Neville and Hannah at the Reach establishing a few of the more domesticated magical plants and animals, Luna at Harrenhal tending the wilder creatures and plants, Seamus in the Iron Islands watching over the Selma population in the Ironman’s Bay, Charlie in the Mountains of the Moon near Vale establishing a dragon reserve, and Hermione in the Citadel at Oldtown studying foreign magic.  He supposed even Draco Malfoy was his friend these days, but he didn’t worry about the Slytherin Prince in the Westerlands. 

 

“Of course. I’ll pass a law that disallows proxies at the Wizengamot, pushing Alcyone back to Harrenhal and that house elf that seems nigh immortal, Kreacher. Black is the only pureblood from the old faction that’s there by proxy, the rest have original Houses. She’s not valuable enough to them to miss out on the high chance that the actual holders of their seats will not show up to session. If seatholders don’t show up, items are still voted on.”

 

“How does that help then? I’m one of those people you want coming back and if I had to be there I wouldn’t let those sods steamroll my voting!” Percy laughed, a high cackling coming out as if he’d just done something diabolical. 

 

“They think you all aren’t there because you don’t care, that you’re burned out and hobbled by the war. I know better. You’re not there because you all care too much to suffer the indignities they could heap upon you, and proxies have relieved you of responsibility that you’d take up if you had to. I’ve done my best to cultivate the image of the war heroes’ selfish retreat into hiding, in preparation for this. You can hate me for it, but it’s protected you from their prying. As you know, bringing you back won’t make you pushovers. It’ll make you Gryffindors all over again. And, if that doesn’t work, I have a few more things that can make it uncomfortable for you.”

 

“Fine, as I said, I’ll think about it. I assume you’re on the side of intervening in their society more than we already have?” 

 

“Yes, I think we have to. The pureblood faction sees intervention as a mercy for the non-magicals, like how you’d put animals in a zoo or a reserve. None of their solutions would address the reasons their society still contains such violence, poverty and instability. If we intervene, it must be to improve their lot and let them sort their governance out, not to press them further down into the dirt,” Percy sounded exasperated by how obvious he felt his position was. Harry wasn’t surprised at the general opinion purebloods held for muggles, however. They sat in relative silence for a moment before Percy spoke again. 

 

“Has Hermione talked to you about her Arithmancy calculations? Or Luna about her divination?” 

 

“I didn’t realize she was looking into it here. Has it worked any?” 

 

“It’s complicated. Her work is very good, and I’ve been helping her test it. We’ve had to anchor portions of our calculations into Old Valyrian glyphs and lodestones. Hermione has spent quite a bit of time curating magic-touched stone to serve as anchors. It turns out the Maesters may have had some idea that the runic language of Old Valyria might be inherently magical, but their disinterest in the subject borders on disobedient. I’ve had to use legilimency more than once, as has Draco, to procure relevant documents. More importantly, we can see  _ something _ with our calculations _. _ We’re not sure what, but there’s a cloud over the future in the coming decade. After that, we can’t determine what happens to Westeros. It’s massive, and we’re not sure if it’s due to some fluke of intermingling magical disciplines or if what comes after is so radically different one way or the other that the danger is real.”

 

“Like Voldemort.” Harry had wondered why Arithmancy could be used to tell the future and hadn’t been used to stop Dark Lord after Dark Lord from rising. How hard could it be? Hard, apparently, and imprecise. Especially since Dark Lords went big or went home, altering futures so significantly, it was difficult to pull any tendrils of simple actionable changes that weren’t interdependent on one another. And more especially because time did not seem to like meddling, and too many changes caused it to find another way to snap back to what it had originally intended. 

 

In the war, he’d asked why they hadn’t used time turners or arithmancy to prevent or stop deaths. It had been explained that they could save a family from the Death Eaters one day, but the next they would likely be hit by a muggle bus. Hermione had once gone in depth on the theories of what could be effectively changed and what couldn’t, but an hour in and he’d passed out on the Weasley’s couch to the sounds of her voice intermingling with Luna and Percy’s. 

 

“Yes, but unlike Voldemort there are some factors that make impending conflict obvious and inevitable. Here are the reports on what we’ve found.” Harry took the thick stack of parchment Percy had pulled from his extendable pouch. He didn’t miss his paperwork days from being an Auror, yet he settled in anyway, listening to Percy summarize what had gone so horribly awry in the south. 

 

* * *

 

 

The next he saw Percy, the man was atop a horse a few shades darker than his hair, a red banner whipping back and forth above his head, emblazoned with a black gryphon for House Weasley. Next to him rode a few nameless knights and bannerman. They poured into Winterfell like a colorful river, each bearing their banner. 

 

Harry knew none of them, but given the way more than a few eyed his robes, they knew what he was. 

 

The hefty man at the head of the column, who was most certainly the King, vaulted off the back of his put upon war horse and grabbed the Lord of Winterfell into an embrace. 

 

“Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours. You’ve not changed at all.” 

 

Harry could see in Ned’s face that the man couldn’t reciprocate the comment. The King was a study in gluttony and ill-suited vanity. His coarse beard covered a fat neck and perfume hung heavy around him, though it didn’t stop the sour smell of unwashed skin and ale from creeping through. He wondered how many times he’d been hit unbeknownst with a  _ scourgify  _ from an irritated wizard or witch.

 

“Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.” 

 

“Bah, as much as anything is mine anymore.” The King eyed Harry up with sharp blue eyes, far less resentful in his tone than words. Given the man’s lack of interest in his own government, he had probably reasoned that he could be grateful that wizards had shown up and taken the burden from him, but he couldn’t appear to be happy about it for the sake of those who had put him on the throne. 

 

The King’s children were introduced, along with his wife and Queen. Her golden hair and upturned nose reminded him so much of Draco back when he’d been a poncy git in Hogwarts, and he almost cracked a smile thinking of Draco sneering down at the Queen and declaring her ‘dull’. The man had a nose for weakness, having been a self-admitted bully at Hogwarts. It was something Harry had picked up on in working at the ministry, that Draco always knew what could get a person to throw a wobbler. 

 

“Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects.” 

 

“Your Grace, surely we should settle in and refresh ourselves first.” Percy had provided one time Portkeys for the journey, as it was a matter of peaceable interactions within the Kingdom. They’d only just mounted up in King’s Landing as far as Harry understood. He had no idea what the man wanted to do in the crypts anyway. 

 

A knight who was surely the Queen’s brother, being as blond as she was, moved to her side as the King turned and gave his wife a cold look. Harry sighed, trying not to think about what Percy had told him. 

 

“My Lord Potter.” The words surprised him, but only for a moment. Before him materialized Alcyone Black, her features quintessential to her family name. If not for her eyes that were more obsidian than flint, and curling waves of black hair, he’d have thought her a northerner. But mostly, she looked like a softer, feminine echo of Sirius. It was this familiarity that made it feel as though she was more than an acquaintance, no matter what Harry consciously knew about the woman, which was truly little. 

 

“My Lady Black.” He reached out, kissing the soft skin on the top of her limp fingers before he jerkily backed away from her. Alcyone stayed cool and collected, her eyes revealing no distaste as she curtseyed to him. As Percy approached, he nodded imperceptibly to the other man, in confirmation that he was on board for what had been discussed between them. Relief briefly flickered in Percy’s eyes. 

 

“Shall we?” Harry offered his elbow to Alcyone and she took it gracefully, letting him lead the three of them to his room once more. One of them had cast a notice-me-not and a muggle repelling charm as no one around them seemed to notice their presence but bustled out of their way automatically. Freki followed close behind, not fooled by any charms. He’d really have to get Percy to examine what he’d done to the direwolf before he left this time. 

 

They had only an hour before they were due to appear at the feast, which was the perfect amount of time to talk about everything that mattered, but not long enough for Alcyone to needle him with anything else. 

 

He’d altered the sitting room slightly for their arrival, adding a third chair, a larger table and fancier tea set. Hermione had beseeched him to put on his “big boy” robes that he used to wear to Ministry events, and he had done so, figuring he might as well get used to it going forward. Freki curled her large body near the fire, golden eyes wide and alert as she lay with her head tucked over her tail. 

 

Percy settled in happily, flicking his wand at the teapot to begin tea service and murmuring questions about how Lady Black would like her tea and if she would prefer fresh fruit to marmalade and scones. Harry never would have known that the man had a general dislike for Alcyone had he not heard directly from him about it, given how solicitous he was of her comfort. Perhaps it was a reflection of Harry’s inability as a host. The one time he’d hosted a party all on his own at Grimmauld place had been before James was born; Ginny had thrown her hands up in disgust and had dragged everyone out to a muggle bar when she’d seen the state of the house. Harry felt this was only partially his fault, as Grimmauld place and its resident elf seemed to hate him. The very walls slouched in his presence and no amount of scourgifying had worked to remove the decades, or maybe centuries, of dirt. He wondered what it looked like now, under Alcyone’s care. He bet the bleeding house liked her. 

 

“Gentleman, down to business, if I may.” She didn’t wait for a response, levitating papers out that settled gracefully into their extended hands. As soon as he grasped them he felt the binding of a vow linking itself to his magic. It was standard for information obtained by the Wizengamot to have a vow attached to the documents, preventing wizards from inadvertently giving away information to non-magicals. Or advertently. 

 

“The Wizarding People’s party has proposed that in light of recent information received on our non-magical counterparts, we modify the charter or declare it defunct. There is grave danger in leaving the non-magicals to their own devices. I believe we must act now, and have a solution presented by the time the new Hand of the King reaches King’s Landing.”

 

“So less than a few days? How convenient for you to have a vote so quickly.” Alcyone stiffened at Harry’s words, and Percy gave him a warning frown. He was supposed to be cooperative, and not antagonize the straight-backed and unyielding proxy for the House of Black. Mostly because his gruff demeanor could be interpreted by her as disagreement with her abilities, and if she left the Wizengamot, even willingly because of pressure experienced by him, it would reflect poorly for their side. The whispers that Harry had forced her out through blackmail or worse would trail behind him. What Harry really thought, was that the woman was Slytherin through and through, for all that she was in Wampus House at Ilvermorny. Her shock was practiced, her vulnerability making her seem like a hot house pureblood flower. But he could see the steel underneath, the calculating gleam to her eyes as she wielded Percy’s concern for her against Harry. 

 

“Your Warden’s life hangs in the balance, Lord Potter. Surely you wish to resolve this before he becomes victim to this conspiracy as well? I have heard he is as reckless in his honesty as you.” Harry brushed off the insult, since he probably deserved it. The unspoken remained that wizards could defend themselves against many angles of attack, even if they were only proficient in defense of it. Lord Stark was a swordsman, but not an assassin. He’d never survive it if someone wanted to kill him in King’s Landing. 

 

“As far as I’ve read, this would all play out without our interference and probably be dealt with by the Hand himself. What’s to say they can’t handle this on their own?” 

 

“Oh they most assuredly could, but the cost to wizarding property, life and reputation could be one we’re not willing to pay. I’ve provided character assessments of all possible contenders for the throne, as well as profiles on their predicted responses to the primary issue at hand. The majority resent our influence, small as it is, and think that Robert Baratheon has abandoned his duty to the throne by giving us land and titles. The succession will not be smooth. Too many of the non-magicals have learned the truth of the conspiracy already to adequately suppress their memories. We are sure they have written documentation.” 

 

Harry pulled out the moving photographs that had been taken and shuffled through them, trying to avoid seeing how lurid in detail they were. Leave it to Purebloods to be less offended regarding the incest, and more concerned that it was outside the bounds of marriage. To think that Voldemort would have approved of Alecto and Amycus Carrow’s relations with one another, as long as it was done under binding oath of marriage, was foul. 

 

“As you know, several proxies will be relieved of their duties within the Wizengamot in the upcoming weeks. Per what I’ve discussed with Percy, you will continue to represent House Black while I move into my duties for House Potter. I’d like to propose a waiting period of a fortnight before we approach this issue once more. As much as I am fond of Eddard Stark, the charter is sacrosanct and we have pledged not to interfere in what does not directly concern us.” Alcyone’s cheek twitched once, but the rest of her mien remained steadfastly placid. If she wanted to pretend to be threatened, Harry could legitimately threaten and bodge the consequences. He was no politician, but in the Auror core he had learned how to call a bluff when he saw one. 

 

“I respect your need for time Lord Potter. There are concerns that the low diversity of specimens we currently have at Harrenhal and the Reach would not be able to sustain even a small assault, and the loss of even one magical life would alter our Arithmancy calculations for genetic diversity considerably. It will not take the Hand longer than a month, but certainly more than a week’s time to discern for himself what has happened. That should be sufficient to review the documents and put it to vote.”

 

Freki yawned from her place by the fire, eyes locked on his as she opened and closed her mouth. A week was about as much as Percy had told him to expect. The Wizengamot had already delayed the vote while Percy had contacted the people he planned to come back to their now-hereditary seats. The man himself had remained silent throughout the exchange, letting Harry get back into the feel of politics once more. 

 

“A week. Well that settles it then. I’ve added two rooms and baths to each, as well as extended my wards to them. It was more efficient and safe than re-warding two more rooms. Alcyone, Percy.” He nodded to both, standing up and gesturing to the former’s room which was opposite his own, and the latter’s which he had placed on the same side as his. 

 

They both murmured their confirmation as each went off to prepare for the feast. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think what’s most interesting about naming this OC Alcyone, is that later I find she is one amongst the Seven Weeping Sisters, or the Pleiades. I just looked up star names until one that was female didn’t sound stupid, wasn’t already used, and also wasn’t Lyra. Alcyone specifically is associated with competition, sadness, loss in astrology. Now the Pleiades are “the sailing ones” and Alcyone is “queen who wards off evil”.
> 
> I think it should be clear now that the wizarding populace has stumbled upon the incest issue. D:


	3. Chapter 3

_ Ron wasn’t great at many things. Good enough at being an auror, a friend, a husband. He knew his insecurities now, like he didn’t during the war. Ever since walking away from the tent in the forest of Dean he’d strived to never do it again, unless it was to run towards something. Leaving to do the  _ right _ thing this time, well, it was easy.  _

 

_ “No, no- Ron! Ron you great bloody git we go together or  _ not at all _ Ron-!” Malfoy’s stupefy hit her in the back and she fell stiff into Ron’s arms. The youngest boy of seven children gazed up at the pale, drawn face of the man who’d been on the other side, the man who Harry had insisted they save. Harry’s slumped form lay against the wall next to Kingsley, the man’s face tense and his wand drawn to point at the boy-who-lived, lest he should wake up as he had before and sacrifice himself for nothing.  _

 

_ “Take her,” Hermione’s eyes were the only part of her that could move, and Ron could see every pleading emotion as she blinked furiously at him. It was probably that funny muggle mor-see code she was going on about Aurors learning. When Malfoy’s arms were hooked under her shoulders and he stood before her to say goodbye, she began to cry.  _

 

_ “Your wife?”  _

 

_ “She was in Paris. You’ll get Scorpius?” There was no hope for anyone in France.  _

 

_ “Portkey them to section five. We have Healers on standby to decontaminate.” Kingsley handed him a moleskin pouch, filled with Portkeys to pin on their people, their children, and take them to safety. Ron nodded and turned to walk away from the anti-apparation wards.  _

 

_ “Weasley! There isn’t enough for everyone. We didn’t have energy for more, so don’t be a twat and give away your last Portkey. The infection drains your magic, you won’t be able to apparate. Do come back so I don’t have to hear Granger whinge on about you, you bloody tosser.” Malfoy looked so small holding Ron’s wife, his voice cracking with grief and concern as he got in a half-hearted barb in for old time’s sake.  _

 

_ “I’ll bring your poncy git son back, you shite, after I tell him to stay away from my daughter.” Ron’s eyes were locked to Hermione’s as he spoke,  _ goodbye, I love you  _ and  _ live, _ shining through his eyes. Before he relented and let her come with him, Ron turned on his heel once more and crossed the line. Bubblehead charm in place, he apparated in a silver  _ crack.

 

_ \--  _ Harry  -- 

 

As Harry looked out into the haze of smoke and people, he longed to disappear into their midst. Sitting at the high table with a stiff, formal Alcyone on one side and a muted Lord Stark on the other, he drank deep of the summerwine in front of him. It was loud and colorful, banners draped on every wall and minstrels singing and playing their harps as they were drowned out by the conversation and sounds of eating. A veritable buffet of distraction, if you happened to not be the distraction. 

 

Mostly he was glad that it was Percy seated next to one Cersei Baratheon. Even the fat King, who sat next to Lord Stark, would be more manageable than feeling the frigid waves of dissatisfaction pouring off the woman. The Queen was a haughty creature, her smile twisting into something like disgust as first Harry and Alcyone, then Percy had entered in after the King and Lord of Winterfell. When the Queen’s brothers followed behind, he knew it was a matter of pride. The woman may have taken her husband’s name, but Harry could see she was a Lannister as surely as Narcissa had been a Black. 

 

“Well, I hope one of us has a bezoar ready for when the Queen poisons Percy.” Harry leaned to whisper to Alcyone. Despite whatever misgivings were between them, she cracked a smirk at his words. 

 

“I spelled all of our utensils. Protocol, you see.” She raised a fork with her pale, delicate hand and popped a root vegetable into her mouth. After chewing methodically and swallowing, she spoke again into the blanket of a  _ muffliato _ .

 

“They despise us. It would be better that we had never entered their world at all.” The both of them were fastened to their seats, staring forward into a captive audience, and as the ale flowed in, so did the distrustful gaze of the crowd before them flow inevitably outward towards the invaders in robes. The magical populace had done things, sufficiently frightening things, to make it clear there would be a place in this world for them. Demonstrations had been necessary, not all painful or violent, but some. After the truth of the incidents, and some untruths twisted from real events, had spread, there had been a tentative peace. But inside that peace smoldered the not-quite belief in magic and an even deeper fear of it being rule and an abomination, leaving an in between place where little goodwill could be borne between the people. Not with the restrictions between them as a society. 

 

“Your lot, before you ever joined them, despised me too. Even in the end, when many regretted their choice to follow Voldemort, and wanted someone, anyone, to save them, they glossed over the half-blood-raised-by-muggles part. Until after, when it was convenient again to mention that I wasn’t really a part of your world.” The point here had been to integrate, to become one with non-magicals and build a society together. But the purebloods and traditionalists had wanted more isolation after the events across earth. They had wanted to take out their loss on the Westerosi, burn into the ground these lowly people who would one day come to resent them enough to do what had already been attempted once: genocide for wizarding kind. Pulled between reactionary and radical solutions, wizards now sat in this middle place where no one was content. 

 

“It is not the same. You have always been ours, even when we didn’t want you or think you deserved us. Perhaps there were no magical people here because this world did not want them, and it still rebels against our presence. Oh,  _ they _ want pieces of us, the violence and the transport and the goods we make. Chopped up and parceled out like so many cuts of choice meat to gobble or bury before someone else covets their meal. But even those white faced trees that bleed close their doors to us. We could have come here, hidden in the many ruins until they forgot those stones ever existed. Instead we’re here, caught in this place of existing but not being, surviving but not living. We watch them flounder, fail to do what is right, and we do nothing but watch like impassive gods torn from time.” 

 

“We’re not gods. That’s the problem, right there, we’re not entitled to any better than they are just because we have the means to achieve it. We owe it to humanity, all of them, to do better than that, to help each person attain greatness.” 

 

“These people,” she laughed and looked at him with a flirtatious mask made for mocking their lack of intimacy. “These people will burn the heart out of you Harry Potter, if you allow them. Daily, their little fingers and eyes seek purchase on our homes and council, and we do not make it easy. But you… Stay in the North, Potter, or do not let sentiment cloud your judgement in King’s Landing. We do our best to protect our own, and for that the enforcement of rules is more stringent than here. Either we will catch you not taking precautions, or some hapless muggle will suffer the consequences.”

 

“Careful Black. You sound like you care about muggles and even me.” She laughed again, a feminine tinkling sound as she tossed her mane of wavy hair back. 

 

“I am a pragmatist who knows very few cleaning spells. And I don’t like blood on carpets or having to replace my tools because someone misused them.” He shrugged at her blase admittance as he watched the fat King stab at a meat pie with a spoon, dribbles of gravy lodged in his beard. The man ate like Harry had on his first day at Hogwarts, and the juxtaposed images clouded the good feelings of that memory. Looking back to Alcyone, he moved on to more relatable topics. 

 

“How is Harrenhal and the manor?” 

 

“Harrenhal is beautiful. Everything a proper wizarding castle should be. It’s as though it was waiting for us there, towers crippled by dragonfire and ghosts haunting each hall. We exorcised them of course, as they were never meant to be, having no magical core. Their imprints survived off the sheer amount of dragonfire coating the place, a phenomenon that your friend Hermione wishes to study further. You should see it with the hearths lit in green flames. It rivals any ministry I’ve ever been to.” Her eyes lit up as she talked, and Harry didn’t have the heart to tell her that the wonder she showed towards magic was something that singled her out as not being quite part of the wizarding world. Maybe she already knew, and felt safe satiating her excitement with him. 

 

“I’ve heard from Luna that we managed to save some boggarts and ghouls. Never thought I’d be happy to think of them surviving, personally.” 

 

“You can thank yourself for the boggarts. Grimmauld place had a whole nest in the basement. The filthy things relocated themselves to the Wailing Tower where we’ve kept the acromantulas. A match made in the Summerland if you ask me, given that we’ve only had to feed the acromantulas half as much as usual.” He shuddered, thinking of some of his least favorite magical creatures shacking up together, even if one was gobbling up the other. 

 

“The manor is coming along. Kreacher has been made to see reason where the portrait of Walburga is concerned.” Clutching her glass tightly, Alcyone gave a tiny frown of consternation that Harry understood all too well. He’d have more sympathy for the woman who had taken over the home, but she had asked for it.  _ Toujours Purs _ would never be true again of the House Black, not in the way Walburga’s portrait cared for. He and Alcyone were equidistantly related to the Blacks, though she carried the name, but Harry was uncertain of her heritage being pure. 

 

“I’m just amazed that Kreacher is still alive to complain. How is the barmy old thing?” If memory served him correctly, Kreacher had been moderately grateful to be given to Alcyone.

 

_ Oh my poor mistress, what would she say to see how far her house has fallen?  _

 

Well, as grateful as Kreacher could be. He hadn’t called her a brat or a nasty mudblood, which was an improvement.

 

“It’s better when Malfoy stops by. But I supposed you never really learned about the true upkeep of a wizarding home.” With Alcyone, he had started to get used to the passive aggressive comments. 

 

“Nope. But I’ve got time.” He smiled, unrepentant and bored out of his mind. Taking a sip of her summerwine and setting it in front of her, she fiddled with her napkin before speaking. 

 

“It is interesting, that if Voldemort had been raised within the wizarding world, he too would have known that his actions towards Malfoy manor had corrupted it. Sirius Black, however, his behavior was inexcusable. The man knew what he-” Harry waved his arms in dismay and irritation. It was one thing to go on a rant about pureblood customs and houses, but another to attack Harry’s godfather. 

 

“What does this have to do with Sirius? We’re talking houses. He could have trashed and mistreated twenty bloody houses if he wanted.”

 

“You see? This is why you should not come to King’s Landing. You don’t belong there, you don’t know about your own people and don’t care to hold your side accountable for anything at all. Your judgement is clouded by what you perceive as righteousness, when all it really is, is blind loyalty and sheer ignorance.” Eyes flashing that dark sleet gray she shared in common with Malfoy, she looked very much like an outraged Sirius. Either that or Harry’s memory was fooling him. It made him realize that he  _ had _ interrupted her and perhaps she had a point about his godfather’s reckless behavior as well as his own disdain for tradition. But it felt like, sometimes, people had forgotten Sirius’s loss, his sacrifice. That they valued their trappings more than their people. And in his heart, Harry hadn’t ever really let go of the fact that Kreacher had something to do with the tragic end Sirius met. 

 

Looking into his distant cousin’s face, the fine aristocratic lines of her nose and jaw that had looked so rugged on Sirius were cut from crystal on Alcyone. Angry, but poised, she waited for his rebuttal. Pride, he decided, was the mark and downfall of all Blacks, and maybe it was in him too. 

 

“You’re right. I hate politics. But I will try, if you explain to me, I’ll try to understand.” Putting every bit of his conviction into his expression, he hoped she saw he meant it. 

 

She must have, because while her face didn’t change perceptibly, she continued speaking. 

 

“A wizarding home is almost, but not quite, a sentient thing. It’s not like a wizarding school, beholden to all and none.  The home is imbued with magic from its family, which it keeps as a reservoir for any magic that needs doing within its walls. Wards, enchantments, charms are all fed from the home, and the home is fed by its wizards. It’s why you can sell your wizarding vacation properties, and wizards do, but your family manse? You can’t sell it, even if its been drained of all magic. When someone buys it, they must tear it down and start anew after cleansing the land underneath. If it can even be torn down. Sometimes they ward up and head for the hills if they sense they’ll be destroyed, taking anyone in the house with them.” The thought of a house running away was hysterical. The idea of wizards and witches trapped inside the anti-apparation wards as they slowly wasted away was not. 

 

“I had no idea, honestly. I assume from the state of the place, it didn’t have a lot of magic left when I got ahold of it. The insides looked dead, and Kreacher half-mad.” 

 

“No, it didn’t. But it’s more than that. All old pureblood homes are blood warded and tied to the family. Sirius despised his family, and when he became Head of House Black, the house reflected his inclinations. When you became Head of House Black, you were never told what it  _ meant _ , and it responded to your neglect.”

 

“So that was why when I changed the curtains they were suddenly as dirty and worn looking as the rest of the house! I could never figure it out and I didn’t want to ask anyone. Ginny always said I should just leave the old thing to rot, and live in a modern apartment above Diagon Alley.” 

 

“I won’t comment on your wife.” 

 

“Wise, that.” The feast was finally winding down, men were laying their heads on the table, drunk and the serving girls had cleared much of the food away. He’d have thought Hermione would have told him about the house, but maybe she thought he knew. It’d been so long, he’d just assumed the house would be fine on its own. That it wouldn’t hurt anyone or sound so cruel to let it turn to rot. 

 

“You know I didn’t mean to just leave things, right? I didn’t know.” He carefully placed his hand over hers, his right hand bearing the sigil rings of Black and Potter. She eyed it the rings before slipping her hand out from underneath his and back to her lap. 

 

“I’m learning that, I think.” 

 

* * *

 

“Best way to explain it is that your wolf is like an owl now. You could send her on a task to find someone and she would. Or something more complex, like guarding your person or others. It’s never been illegal to make a non-magical animal into a familiar, but it is difficult and time consuming the larger the beast. Hence why we stick with rats, owls, toads, snakes, cats and sometimes ravens.” Mouth open and tongue wagging, Freki looked more like an overly large and friendly dog. 

 

When the feast had ended, they’d all gone up to Harry’s rooms and toasted the night with fire whiskey. He thought it pleasant that even amidst all their loss, when wizarding folk came together now, it didn’t matter what their political leanings were. Each gathering was a celebration of life and victory over circumstances. Even Alcyone had giggled like a girl half her age as they played exploding snap and Harry lost a dozen times first to Percy, and then Alcyone, at Wizard’s chess. 

 

Now, he and Percy sat in the great hall as the man examined Freki. Notice-me-not charms in place, the servants swept and wiped the area clean of last night’s revelries without a glance in their direction. Alcyone had opted to stay in the rooms and read through some of Harry’s library. 

 

“Most of the heavy lifting was done. Something brought her here from the North, and when it left, her mind was easy to slip into.” 

 

“Nothing to be concerned about then. Have you stored the memories of the incident for transport?” 

 

“In my rooms, you’ll have them before you go.” He waved absently, thankful he’d had the foresight to put them under wards keyed to him. Not that Alcyone wouldn’t see the memories at some point, but he was trying to take what she had said into account. If he wanted to go to King’s Landing and be taken seriously, he had to start acting the part of Sentinel and dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s when it came to protocol. 

 

“You seemed to manage having a tactful and productive conversation with Black last night.” Freki was dozing upright, Percy’s hand slowly smoothing the fur between her ears down and her back before repeating the gesture. 

 

“Did you know that wizarding houses could go rogue?” Genuinely curious, Harry watched Percy’s face for a response. 

 

“Yes. The Malfoy manor was almost declared unlivable after the war. Draco had insisted on keeping it, but no one could vouch for his safety if he entered the thing. It was lucky, that he came out alive.” Stunned, Harry tried to imagine walking into Grimmauld place knowing he might not come out again, and couldn’t picture ever making that decision for a bloody  _ house _ .  

 

“Huh. I have no idea how I didn’t know that. Percy, you told me the Weasley home was sold a long time ago, but Black said manors couldn’t be sold. Not really.”

 

“Yes, that.” Sighing, Percy looked embarrassed. “It was our great-great grandfather, Caradoc Weasley. A lot like our father, he was. Always tinkering and getting in trouble with muggles, though back then some of what he did would have gotten him sent to Azkaban today. From what I can piece together, the Weasley home looked at lot like Grimmauld place under him, dusty and unhappy. A manse likes to be appreciated you know. So he passed it to his sister who married a Prewett, after building the Burrow as a bachelor home. Prewetts were a Light family and their magic was similar enough to ours that the house allowed the Prewett husband and Weasley wife in the home. Of course he couldn’t really give it away completely, much like you can’t with Grimmauld place.” Percy fiddled with the hem of his robes as he spoke in a more intimate tone than he usually used. The red-head was fond of the pomp and formality of Ministry work, and even though he’d reconciled with his family it didn’t change the kind of person he was. Though, what had been annoying when he was young and prone to being a braggart was now useful and somewhat charming. 

 

“Ah so it became a Prewett manse, contrary to what Black said about houses not being able to switch allegiances.” 

 

“No, the story does not have a very happy ending. Caradoc had a few sons by that point, and his oldest, Gaius, was looking to strike out on his own. Thinking that the manor was now imbued with Prewett magic enough to be rid of it, Caradoc attempted to sell it to his sister’s husband and give the galleons to Gaius. The minute he signed the parchment deeding the house to Prewett, the manor pulled its foundations from the ground, sealing Caradoc, his sister, his sister’s husband and their children inside before fleeing Ottery St. Catchpole into parts unknown. It’s never been found.” 

“That actually can happen?  _ Did _ happen?” Thankful Alcyone was a Black for the sake of her life inside Grimmauld place, he knew he’d have to reinstate Marius on the tapestry as soon as possible. If the house was doing better, that was excellent, but there was no reason to take chances. He didn’t understand why she hadn’t let him know what was at truly stake in the matter. She wasn’t a friend, but she was what was left of his family. 

 

“It’s magic Harry. The story of the Weasley house is a cautionary tale, and it’s one of the reasons we’re not well-respected as a family.” It was something that Harry still didn’t understand for many years after the war, why the purebloods looked down so harshly on the Weasleys. But he was beginning to see that being a ‘blood-traitor’ was more about turning one’s back on wizarding culture than it was accepting muggles with open arms. He had loved Arthur’s bumbling, unworried ways with muggle appliances and tools, as it reminded him of what it was to feel a sense of wonder about magic. And deeply meaningful to Harry was Arthur’s love for his wife, Molly, and their children. Having been denied a family before, the Weasleys were the kind of people he thought to emulate, and had overlooked their flaws in favor of the kindness in their hearts. 

 

“You couldn’t just expect a house to go and do that! So why didn’t Ginny say something then? We could have- well, we could have died in that house! And I’m not even a Black!” 

 

“Well, you  _ can _ expect a wizarding house to do that, unfortunately. Which is what makes the story a painful one not generally told by our family members to others. I thought you deserved to know now, since I suppose you weren’t aware of the danger.” Percy looked penitent, and Harry knew that maybe it didn’t matter to the rest of the Weasleys about having a wizarding house, but it mattered to Percy. 

 

“Don’t worry about the Black house, Harry. Inheritance rights say you’re a Black. It’s about blood yes, but magic too. As for Ginny, I loved my sister dearly, but she was more stubborn than all of us put together. Knowing her, she felt that if the Weasleys didn’t need a wizarding house, then the Potters didn’t either.” It dawned on him then, that his father had to have grown up somewhere, with his own father and mother, Charlus and Dorea nee Black. A wizarding home. 

 

“Merlin, there was a Potter house wasn’t there? I knew I had Potter property, but I didn’t realize… No wonder the purebloods look down on me. I abandoned my family’s home, never even wanted it. I guess I didn’t understand it was like a person, almost. Why did no one explain this to me?” 

 

“Albus took you under his wing. We all assumed you knew these things from him, and by the time you’d married Ginny and were working as an Auror, I guess it just wasn’t any of our business what you chose to do. The subject is a sensitive one, and normally the decision to abandon a manse is not a topic brought up over dinner. It is deeply personal.” Harry was in a foul mood now, and Freki perked up, looking at him with her soulful yellow eyes. His  _ cousin _ Alcyone had been insulting him, by even indulging in conversation on the matter, but if she hadn’t then he would have remained ignorant. 

 

“Well, I think I need a walk to think over things. Thanks for telling me Percy, I know it must be difficult to talk about it.” 

 

“Not at all,” he flushed for a moment. “Well, a little, but if it helps you figure out what you want to do, then it was worth saying.” He smiled, a true, happy smile free from the trappings of his position. 

 

Freki followed him as he wound his way through the halls and stairs, down to the guardroom. His wolf loped ahead and sniffed at one of her pups tied to wooden stand. Harry didn’t know which one it was, but he dispelled the notice-me-not and leaned down to pet the tiny creature. Which wasn’t that small, but in comparison to its mother was only an armful of fur. 

 

“Waiting for someone little guy?” He scratched the pup’s ears as he looked up at Harry with cheery yellow eyes that begged him for freedom. Someone was probably coming back for him, however. 

 

“Girl. Her name is Nymeria.” He knew her voice before he turned around, though as far as he understood, she should have been attendant to the young princess. 

 

“Arya. Skiving off now, eh?” Bad moods never stuck around with Harry for long, not when there was rule-breaking involved. 

 

“Don’t know what skiving means, but if it has nothing to do with stupid needlework or singing or dancing, then yeah. I’m skiving.” Her foot kicked at a clod of packed dirt that someone had tracked in, eyeing him from under her long, dark brown locks. 

 

“Yeah, that’s skiving all right. Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. Can’t interfere, can I?” Harry said cheekily, and she smiled back, equally complicit. Nymeria was straining at her leash now, trying to reach her owner. Harry noticed the tear streaks on Arya’s face and decided not to say anything, but perhaps spend some time with the girl. Before Catelyn found her and hurried her off anyway. 

 

“So what mischief are we getting into today?”

 

“Robb is going to put Joffrey flat on his back in the yard! I want to go see.” Giggling, Arya hugged her wolf before beckoning to all of them to follow her. 

 

“Come on!” She called. Harry headed up the rear as the wolves and girl scampered ahead, weaving through more hallways and stairs to end up on the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep. Jon was there, sitting casually on the ledge next to the window as he watched events below. Freki approached Ghost, who nipped and licked at her chin along with Nymeria before Freki took one large paw and pushed the white pup over, Nymeria taking advantage and jumping on top to begin rough housing. 

 

“Ghost, to me.” Jon didn’t quite glare, but there was distrust in his grey eyes as he called his wolf to him. Ghost disentangled himself as Nymeria cocked her head, the furry tips of her ears flopping to the side. 

 

“Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?” 

 

“I wanted to see them fight.” Arya gave Harry a sidelong glance, looking for moral support. Much like a medieval society, the Westerosi were strict with their gender roles. To their detriment, Harry believed. 

 

“A good duel is a treat. My friend Hermione is one of the better duellers we have. Mostly because she’s read every book and memorized every one of them.” Harry settled into the window next to them, trying to emulate Sirius’s easy going manner of speaking. His godfather had always made him feel carefree, like he could have fun even when circumstances were dire. A marauder up to mischief. 

 

“Women can fight if they’re wizards?” Arya gawked at Harry as Jon looked worried at the both of them. 

 

“Oh yes. But they’re witches, not wizards. I once watched the mother of my best friend defeat one of the darkest witches I’ve ever known. She was a dab hand at cooking spells, but I never thought she had it in her to take someone down in a duel. You don’t cross a witch in a snit, either. She’ll hex your bits off.” Grinning broadly, Arya’s eyes had a glossy sheen of  _ want _ overlaying grey.

 

“I’ve heard there are no people like yours amongst us. Is it true then?” He could tell that Jon wasn’t really curious. It was only to remind Arya that the kind of equality she was looking for was unattainable. 

 

“Unfortunately, that’s true.” Seeing Arya’s face change from awed to downtrodden made Harry frown slightly. Jon reached over and wrapped and mussed with her hair. 

 

“I hate being a lady! It’s not fair!” She shoved her brother’s hand off in a huff. 

 

“Nothing is fair,” Jon intoned gravely, looking over her head at Harry as if to remind him not to encourage what could never be. He found himself thinking again that it would be so much easier if the bastard child of Eddard Stark actually liked him. Maybe he’d have found a way to make the boy his assistant. 

 

Turning to the window and looking out into the yard, he tried not to laugh as he watched Bran and the younger prince bash at each other with padded wood swords. Arya murmured something more to Jon and he said something in return, grinning down at her. Harry wished he had had a sibling that he could have been close to, like Jon and Arya. 

 

“Jon, how come you’re not down there with the rest of them.” Arya asked. Jon frowned. 

 

“Any bruises the princes take must come from trueborn swords.” 

 

“How strange a custom.” Harry could only comment. What he wanted to say was that if it was so difficult for Jon, he could take him away from all this. If he wasn’t accepted here, Harry could make it so he was. He knew very well what it was like to be the unwanted child, the inconvenient boy. And he wouldn’t let a damn charter stop him from bettering Jon’s life. 

 

“I could do just as good as Bran. He’s only seven and I’m nine.” Arya piped up, her voice giving every indication that of all injuries heaped on her person, it was perhaps the greatest unfairness that she was not holding a sword this very instant and bashing on the princes herself. Neither of them replied, not wanting to encourage her. 

 

They watched in relative silence for a time, as the two highborn boys huffed and puffed at one another. Finally Ser Rodrik called the match, said it was well fought and suggested that Joffrey and Robb make a go at one another. 

 

“Gladly.” Robb moved forward, wooden sword in hand. 

 

“This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik.” Joffrey insisted. 

 

“You are children!” Theon laughed. From there it devolved quickly, Joffrey insisting that he was a prince and he wouldn’t swat at Robb with a wood sword. Robb had accepted the terms of live steel, but Ser Rodrik disagreed. One of Joffrey’s men at arms, Clegane, had taunted Robb, but Theon held Robb back from going for the prince or his man-at-arms. 

 

Joffrey strode out at the end, leaving one last taunt for the Lannister and Baratheon men that surrounded the prince to laugh on. Watching Joffrey was worse than when Malfoy had been a child. At least Draco had been yellow bellied enough to declare that ‘my father will hear about this!’ out of fear, rather than Joffrey’s sure understanding of his position in life. Harry thought Dudley had been spoiled, but this was blown out of proportion. 

 

“Watch this.” A slipping hex shot out from his extended wand, invisible but effective nonetheless. The smug prince Joffrey and several of his men went down in a heap of limbs as Robb and Theon guffawed merrily. Evern Ser Rodrik cracked a smile, none of them suspecting it hadn’t been natural. As Joffrey started shouting that he’d been  _ tripped _ and how absolutely incompetent every one of them was and if he were king he’d have their  _ heads. _ All three of them burst into laughter. 

 

“Well, I’m not being found at the scene of the crime.” Harry scooted off the ledge carefully, his face no longer visible at the window. “Arya, I have something for you. Show me your hands?” 

 

She scrambled off from where she was sitting and eagerly bounded over to him, Nymeria thinking it a great game and nipping at her heels. Before Jon could protest, Arya’s hands glowered silver momentarily. 

 

“There, now for the next two hours or so, you’ll be able to embroider whatever it is you set your heart to. You know, something like ‘Sansa is a bogey’ or ‘I’m with stupid’. Bring whatever cloth you use to me after you’re done and I’ll enchant it so the next time your hands will be guided. That should keep Septa Mordane off your back.” Children were transparent. Harry was willing to bet that Arya had been crying because of her own inability to conform with what her duties were supposed to be and her mostly unsupportive sister who was everything Arya was expected to be. 

 

“Really?!” Her face was the epitome of innocent delight and he had a moment where his grief at his lost family loosened and he  _ felt _ so much for his own daughter. He was missing these precious moments. She was well cared for, and he wasn’t being irresponsible. Children had gone off to Hogwarts for eight months at a time, and the Water Gardens included schooling from their people. Still, as he watched the glow fade from her hands, he knew he shouldn’t be denying his daughter the pure joy that was shared magic. 

 

“Yes really. No telling though. Off with you!” She scampered away, her pup right behind. 

 

“That wasn’t a good idea.” The fourteen year old boy was practically pouting at him, an expression that would have been described as ‘brooding’ on a man. 

 

“Life isn’t worth living without it being fun. If it’s all duty all the time, where is there room for everything else?” 

 

“Honor is a higher calling than childish  _ fun _ .” 

 

“Is it Jon? You have these things, duty, honor, fidelity, hierarchy, titles and on and on because your lives are short and hard. Without these rules, your people often die, usually alone and starving. But when the stakes aren’t so high, when you don’t need to worry about your place in the world, it frees you to think, to ponder your own existence. What do you do when you owe no one your life? Can you answer me that?” The boy was rigid with discomfort, likely thinking over his place in the world as a bastard, as unwanted, pulled between his father’s insistence that he be raised with his half siblings and Catelyn’s unadulterated hate of him reminding him that his father’s love would never be enough. 

 

“You don’t have to say now. Think on it. There may come a time in the future when our kind will be integrating with yours. When that day comes, we will need contacts with the outside world. People we trust to keep our secrets. You are likeable Jon, and even though I disagree with your people’s attitude towards the circumstances of your birth and think you should be treated better than you are, I realize you likely never will be at Winterfell no matter how much we may make changes in your world. And I recognize while you distrust me, and may not think much of me, I do see you.” 

 

“It doesn’t matter if you see me or not. I’d never be allowed to go with you.” 

 

“You’re almost fifteen. In the wizarding world you’re considered of age at seventeen, but we’d make an exception based on what your people consider adulthood. If you’re a man, and I’m willing to take you on, would your father saying no stop you? That’s really the only question.” 

 

“Lord Stark is a great man.” 

 

“That’s not an answer. But as I said, you don’t have to let me know now. Think on it. I am leaving for King’s Landing with the royal retinue to take my place on our council. It is likely your father will be coming with us, and he may have need of a man-at-arms. If it doesn’t work out, you’ll gain experience from a great many southern knights, and there is always Winterfell.” 

 

“Fa- Lord Stark is leaving?” 

 

“Hmm, perhaps I spoke too soon, but the wampus is out of the bag I guess. Yes, with Lord Arryn’s passing, your father has agreed to become Hand of the King, though don’t tell anyone I said so until it’s announced. You probably don’t want to stay here with Lady Catelyn breathing down your neck.”

 

“What you said- about helping you. What would that mean?” Harry studied the youth in front of him, watching as Jon finally considered a different future for himself. Inside his pocket, the Protean Dragon warmed and Harry figured he had better get back to his rooms. 

 

“Oh. Mostly having fun. Come find me later and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m being summoned.” He winked and left the pale face boy behind him on the bridge. 

 

* * *

 

“When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say it began tonight on a ship bound for Gulltown.” Viserys drank deeply of his wine, his lilac eyes half-lidded and lazily dreaming of conquest and dragons. 

 

“We will have it all back, sweet sister, as I promised. The jewels, and the silks. Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back. Ours is the house of the dragon, and from dragons reborn we will give them blood and fire.” More wine went down his throat as Magister Illyrio raised his goblet, the light from the fires glinting off the many gemstones on his fingers and his dark, reflective eyes. The man was a dealer in all manor of things; spices, gemstones, dragonbone and even death. Daenerys listened, and she heard things, and knew that all that Illyrio gave them came at a cost. But, she wouldn’t dare remind her brother while he dreamed, his anger being a terrible thing.

 

“To the rightful King of Westeros. The Targaryen dynasty!” Viserys smiled at the Magister, a cold and small thing, his teeth glittering white and predatory. 

 

“To the arrival of the wizards, bringing my dragon eggs to this world!” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I quoted sherlock. Shout out to astolat’s house proud which I shamelessly got some ideas from. Also yes I know Ginny is the only girl for seven generations, but it was easier this way. I also know JK made Harry’s grandfather Fleamont, but I just can’t resist the Black connection to Charlus and Dorea.   
> There’s a lot of book dialogue in here (GOT), but not all. Trying to weave them in to give it that similar feel to when you first read the GOT books.

**Author's Note:**

> List of characters that died (yes you will find out about their deaths):  
> Ron  
> Ginny  
> Molly  
> Arthur  
> Bill  
> Fleur  
> Victoire  
> Albus  
> Astoria  
> Scorpius  
> Rose Weasly  
> Albus Severus  
> James Sirius  
> Astoria   
> Scorpius  
> Blaise  
> Padma 
> 
> Survived:   
> Harry Potter  
> Hermione Granger  
> Pansy Parkinson  
> Luna Scamander  
> Rolf Scamander  
> Lorcan and Lysander Scamander  
> George Weasley  
> Nevile Longbottom  
> Hannah Longbottom  
> Lily Luna Potter  
> Hugo Weasley   
> Daphne Greengrass  
> Theodore Nott  
> Percy Weasley  
> Seamus Finnegan  
> Dean Thomas  
> Parvati Patil


End file.
